


i had to kill you (i'm really sorry)

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Cults, Established Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, F/F, Hunt Avatar Gerard Keay, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018), M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Gerard Keay, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Jon has his sweet husband and his MI5 job and his weird coworkers, and that should be an interesting enough life, except that it isn't. Lucky that the assassin whose career he's been idly following ends up tangled in his actual job, by way of one Agnes Montague, and everything starts to fall apart in new andveryinteresting ways.(An AU inspired by Killing Eve--no knowledge of the show necessary)
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay & Agnes Montague, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	i had to kill you (i'm really sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> Killing Eve jongerrymartin popped fully formed into my head and I had to write it. This is self-indulgent fun for me, and I hope you'll all enjoy it as well.

Honestly, Jon never expected MI5 to be interesting. He figured it would just be a job, like any other, and he never got why Martin and everyone else in the world seemed so excited on his behalf when he got hired. 

Martin’s still excited by it, even though it turned out Jon was right and it is, in fact, boring. Doesn’t make a difference to him, though, he still hums the James Bond theme at Jon every morning when he leaves for work and gets a little too into tipsy roleplaying whenever they get dressed up to go to dinner.

Despite the fact that Jon’s job is entirely to do with protecting people, it’s...boring. It’s all logistics. Sometimes people die, but it’s all far-off. There’s a lot of busywork, and a lot of downtime with the intelligence databases just...browsing. He and Sasha--his coworker, just as bored as he is and probably much smarter, if he’s honest--get into research competitions sometimes, when they don’t have anything better to do and no one’s around to get after them.  _ How many degrees of separation is (x politician) from (x ne’er-do-well)? _ and sundry. 

(Sasha always wins. It’s not even close. She reads at a frankly absurd pace and types even faster and it doesn’t seem fair after a certain point.)

It’s a good job. He’s not  _ complaining _ . It pays well, and it’s steady, and it could easily be something he does for the rest of his life. It’s just...it’s tedious. It’s the same thing every day. Jon doesn’t know what he expected, frankly, as a fucking lit major he’s lucky he even got a job  _ this _ worthwhile, and he’s, you know,  _ helping people _ and  _ saving lives _ , but it’s one thing to do that intellectually and distantly and quite another to actually be there.

The days go quickly, at least. He blinks and they’re over, with no change in base state. He wakes up and gets breakfast and tea and an expertly packed lunch forced on him by his exquisitely kind husband, work blurs, and then he’s in bed again. It would be ridiculous for him to be depressed, because he has everything. So he probably isn’t. Besides, how could he be depressed with  _ Martin _ as his husband? The sweetest man in the entire world cooks for him and looks after him and teases him and loves him wholeheartedly and...and Jon’s bored with him too, even though he loves him wholeheartedly back. It’s just--they’re just  _ grownups _ , and not even the interesting kind. It’s a soft, warm existence. It just... _ is _ .

He sometimes thinks about telling Martin he’s bored, but he couldn’t bear the look he imagines on Martin’s face, those doe-eyes, absolutely shattered and betrayed, even for just a split second. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Things start to pick up after about a year of absolute monotony. A weird uptick in what seem like ritual killings across Europe--death cults, sacrifices...the kinds of things that don’t happen in the  _ civilized world _ , as all the stuffy fuckers repeat on the BBC. But it’s not entirely unprecedented, is it, because there was Robert Montauk in the 80s and the People’s Church of the Divine Host, and mentions of--well, there’s multiple names, but the Lightless Flame, and now hints of some  _ circus _ \--and through all of this, elegant, businesslike killings of cultists and wealthy benefactors.

All this to say Jon gets obsessive, like he tends to when interesting things start happening, and especially when said interesting things have the distinct aroma of...well. Of his own personal web of delusions and childhood traumas.

He’s not expecting it to touch his department, though. If it’s interesting, it gives them a wide berth, as Tim (other coworker, just as smart as Sasha but a lot more social about it) loves to bemoan constantly. 

He’s wrong, though. He gets called into the office on a Saturday morning, which is odd enough. Nothing worth ignoring business hours ever happens. Martin whines the whole time because they were going to go to the beach today and forces a thermos of tea on him as he leaves.

He gets in, and Tim and Sasha are both leaning against a wall in the vacant hallway, intently discussing something in hushed tones.

“--just  _ saying _ , there’s no way it’s gonna be a celebrity, Tim, it never is,” Sasha says, shrugging and shaking her head. “I also don’t think your sexual fantasies on that front are ever gonna play out. If you were an actual bodyguard,  _ maybe _ .”

“Okay, I am still  _ sure _ I could pull Angela Merkel,” Tim says.

“We’re not having this conversation again, Timothy,” Sasha says, then notices Jon and waves. “Hey, Jon!”

“We have a betting pool going for what’s so important we had to shake off our hangovers and get over here,” Tim says, beaming at Jon. “ _ I _ think credible death threat for a world-famous figure.”

“I think someone’s blown the whistle on whatever the fuck’s going on with the Circus,” Sasha says, crossing her arms. “You?”

“I’m going with Sasha,” Jon says, shrugging one shoulder.

“No fun, make up your own,” Tim whines, and Jon sighs.

“Fine. Cult member figured out who’s been doing all the killings, needs protection from said killer,” he says, because he’s been thinking about it the whole Tube ride over.

“Not bad,” Sasha says, raising her eyebrows. “Would definitely be a point for your red string conspiracy board.”

“It’s not a  _ conspiracy board _ ,” Jon says, shaking his head. “You tape a few things to a whiteboard  _ one time _ and everyone badgers you forever.”

“Can I have your tea?” Tim asks, pointing and making puppydog eyes. “It’s Martin tea, right?”

Jon sighs and holds the thermos out to him. Tim bows his head reverently and accepts it with both hands. “You’re welcome,” Jon says, flatly.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers. “And thank you to your lovely husband, the all-powerful god of perfect tea.”

“Shall we?” Sasha asks. “I think they’ve got someone from MI6 in there. Wouldn’t want to seem  _ unprofessional _ .” She flicks Tim in the back of the head, but he doesn’t seem to notice, as he’s too busy inhaling the steam from the thermos with closed eyes.

As it turns out, they’re all wrong, though Jon’s the closest. Sasha was right about there being someone from MI6, too, and that’s at least  _ exciting _ . Elias Bouchard. Jon knows the name. Legendary ascension from paper-pusher to field agent, and now he’s a director. He barely speaks, just regards the three of them with a raised, disdainful eyebrow.

The brief, though--Agnes Montague, a young woman in her very early twenties, was walking with her...adopted father (?), Arthur Nolan, notoriously of the Lightless Flame, when he was murdered. An artery in his thigh cut  _ expertly _ , so much so that neither of them noticed until he was bleeding to death and it was far too late.

Agnes hasn’t said a word since, but as the only witness (and someone with apparent ties to the Lightless Flame), her safety is very much in question, hence needing government protection. It’s not a long meeting, and fairly straightforward, but Jon has this nagging feeling, this...he can’t help but blurt it out, even just to Sasha.

“Twenty quid it was my killer,” he mutters, and Sasha laughs softly and rolls her eyes at the ceiling.

“You’re  _ obsessed _ ,” she whispers back.

“ _ Your _ killer?” Bouchard pauses on his way out the door, turning his head to Jon, eyebrow still perfectly raised. 

Jon flushes, throat closing at the sudden burst of scrutiny. “Uh. Well. All the cultist killings lately, I think--I believe they’re  _ connected _ . I don’t exactly have proof, but…” He trails off, shoulders hunching, deeply regretting ever speaking in Bouchard’s withering gaze.

Bouchard makes a  _ hmm _ sound in the back of his throat. “Thank you, Jon,” he says, and then leaves.

Jon sags as soon as he’s out of the room. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Tim awkwardly pats him on the back, slurping tea loudly. “Yikes.”

“He called you  _ Jon _ ,” Sasha says, waggling her eyebrows. “He likes your theory.”

“Not sure that follows,” Jon says into his hands.

“Right, shall we do our jobs for once?” Tim asks, slamming his hand on the table and pushing to his feet. “We’ve got a cult-baby damsel to protect.”

“God, I’d  _ love _ two minutes with her,” Sasha says, sighing wistfully. “If she’s actually in the Lightless Flame…”

“She might not be,” Jon says, shrugging, even though he would also desperately love two minutes with Agnes Montague. “Arthur Nolan  _ probably _ is-- _ was _ , but there’s no proof, and besides--it’s not as if Julia Montauk was part of the People’s Church of the Divine Host just because her father was. It doesn’t necessarily follow.”

“Cult baby,” Tim repeats, nodding firmly. “It’s more interesting, so we’re operating with it. Not like the truth actually affects our jobs at all.”

“Fair point,” Sasha says, shrugging. “Right, then.”

**

Gerry’s still riding the spine-tingling high of a good hunt by the time they get back to their flat in Genoa. He’s thinking about unwinding properly--good weed, a hot tourist who’s in Italy to ‘find themself’, a long bout of online shopping--and then the fantasies all die in her chest as they unlock their door and are met with the clipped, faintly disapproving voice of Gertrude Robinson.

“You let Agnes go,” she says, and Gerry sighs, pulling their hair back and sinking back into the persona. No Gerry Keay here, only Montag.

“You specifically told me not to kill her,” they say, crossing their arms and cocking their head, fixing Gertrude with a flat, uninterested stare.

“So you thought the answer was to  _ let her go _ ?” Gertrude asks. “What kind of idiot  _ are _ you, Montag?”

“Fuck off,” Gerry snaps. “I did the job. Nolan’s dead. Turned to ash.  _ And _ I didn’t get horrifically burnt, so, y’know. Good for me.”

“And the witness--and, I might add, desperately important figure--is now in government custody.  _ Good for you _ .”

“If you wanted me to do something else with her, you should’ve told me.”

“What, you’re so  _ blinded _ by your overlord that you can’t intuit basic logic?” Gertrude snaps. “Go back to London and  _ fix it _ .”

“You want me to--what,  _ kidnap her _ ?” Gerry asks. “From governmental custody. Absolutely not.”

“If you let Agnes Montague go, the world ends in fire,” Gertrude says. “You know that as well as I do. I don’t want that, you don’t want that, and she doesn’t either. Fix. It.”

“I  _ just _ got back.”

“Do you think I care?”

“No, not one bit,” Gerry snaps. “What do you want me to do with her?”

“Bring her back here,” Gertrude says. “Keep her safe. I need to speak with her.”

“And how do you expect me to transport someone the government’s going to be after without getting caught?” 

“You’re smart, figure it out.”

“I’m an assassin, Gertrude, not a fucking human trafficker. I kill people. I don’t take them on lovely trips to Italy,” Gerry says.

“Don’t fly,” Gertrude says, shrugging.

“That’s all you’ve got? ‘Don’t fly’? I could’ve figured that out myself.”

“Then clearly you have solid instincts and you’ll be fine,” Gertrude says, smirking and crossing the room to hand Gerry a plane ticket. “Go.”

“First class?” she asks, somewhat petulantly.

“Of course.” Gertrude rolls her eyes. “You’re just like your mother.”

“Ouch,” Gerry says, smirking, even if there’s a swell of pride along with it. “Fine. See you later.”

“Don’t get incinerated. Or caught.”

“Please, I’ve never been caught. Or incinerated, for that matter.” Gerry pats her lightly on the shoulder, slightly concerned that she might break his wrist for the familiarity. “I know you’d miss me, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

Gertrude just snorts, rolls her eyes, and leaves the flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All feedback is greatly appreciated <3  
> find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend


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